


For All the Stars in Heaven

by ausgezeichnet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Domesticity, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, South Downs Cottage, a bit of kidnapping, addressing serious topics in the silliest way possible, if only my sunday school teacher could see me now, theological differences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-25 13:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19746886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausgezeichnet/pseuds/ausgezeichnet
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley's stunt with the body switch might have bought them a reprieve from the retribution of heaven and hell, but that doesn't mean either side is done meddling in their quiet lives on the South Downs.





	1. Did we leave our way behind us?

**Author's Note:**

> I am here. I am hyped. I am reliving my first foray into the Good Omens fandom five years ago with great enthusiasm. The amount of content being produced these days is amazing. 
> 
> This was written with the show in mind, because it’s been a few years since I read the book, although I love it dearly, and imagining Michael Sheen and David Tennant saying the lines I write is quite fun. As such, I’m using female pronouns for God.
> 
> Title and chapter titles from Queen’s “Long Away,” which is honestly quite underrated and works very well with Good Omens. Next chapters will be posted soon, I have ideas and plots and shenanigans. There should be four chapters in total. Rating is a guesstimate at this point.

Crowley was rudely awakened from an exquisitely lazy late-afternoon nap by the booming voice of the Metatron calling his name. He jerked awake and promptly fell off the blessedly comfortable couch in the cottage's library (or rather, the room currently most jam-packed with books. The couch could be described as sinfully comfortable, except for the fact that Aziraphale was responsible for its overstuffed cushions).

Crowley picked his fallen sunglasses up off the wooden floorboards, scrambled to fit them back onto his face, and said, with great intelligence and clarity, “Urgh.“

“Crowley,” said the Metatron once more, voice full of divine disdain. His immense glowing head manifested in front of the wide bay window nook across from the couch, framed by precarious stacks of recently-acquired books. The radiant beams emanating from his manifestation filled the normally cozy room with cold white light. Crowley winced even behind his sunglasses, pressing his body back into the couch as the heavenly light continued to shine brighter and brighter.

“Uh, yes,” said Crowley. “That's me. Uh. Long time no see.”

The Metatron pursed his lips. Crowley suddenly became very aware of his sleep-rumpled hair and reached up a self-conscious hand to ruffle it into place, with little success.

“I bring tidings from the Almighty Herself, Demon Crowley,” said the Metatron. “This is no small honor.”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” said Crowley. “Only, are you sure there hasn't been a mistake?”

“What?”

“It just seems a bit unlikely, the Voice of God popping down to visit a demon. Are you sure She didn't want Aziraphale? He should be just upstairs, I can just head right up and let him know you, uh, called.”

“There is no mistake!” the Metatron thundered, and Crowley cowered further down against the couch, his impossible legs splayed at awkward angles in front of him. The Metatron sighed, and continued, “She does not make mistakes. Listen well, Crowley. This is an honor bestowed upon no other member of the Fallen.”

“Alright, alright,” Crowley said. “Well then. What does She want?”

Just as the Metatron bristled at his tone, the door swung open with a soft creak and Aziraphale stepped into the room.

“Hello there,” he said, voice impossibly gentle.

Crowley felt half the tension in his body release, and levered himself up to sprawl across the couch with studied nonchalance rather than remaining on the floor.

“Principality Aziraphale,” said the Metatron with a measured tone. “My visit concerns the demon Crowley, not you.”

“Oh, yes, lovely,” said Aziraphale. “But I heard your voice and noticed your, ah, divinity, and I thought l ought to greet our guest, especially such a great and important guest. The locale's a little different since we last spoke-- well, same books, different room, I suppose. But it'd be an unforgivable affront on my part not to welcome you into our home. Will you take tea? Oh, you wouldn't, I suppose. Well. It takes some getting used to, being corporeal, as they say.”

Nobody, in fact, had ever said such a thing, except inexperienced angels doing a terrible job of blending in with humanity, of which there had been many over the centuries. The Metatron simply blinked as Aziraphale continued chattering, an oddly human gesture on an enormous ethereal head. Aziraphale's gaze remained focused on the Metatron's manifestation, gentle smile fixed in place, but he began steadily walking towards the middle of the room and Crowley, talking all the way. Crowley had rarely been so grateful to hear his inane chatter.

He studied Aziraphale's shoulders, noting the tension they carried. It had been two years since they'd moved to the South Downs, and three since the Apocalypse was canceled due to gross incompetence and a great deal of human love. Crowley had hoped they would have more time. He'd been almost sure they would, but that surety was gone with this rather inconvenient houseguest.

“-biscuits must be right out for you as well, I assume,” Aziraphale was saying. He'd reached Crowley and sunk down onto the couch beside him, reaching out to weave his hand through Crowley's without a second of hesitation. Aziraphale squeezed his fingers, squared his shoulders, angled his hips, and shifted so that Crowley was partially sheltered by his body. His calm expression never wavered. Crowley smiled fondly at him. 

Aziraphale continued chattering about biscuits, and the Metatron had turned an impressive shade of puce before he finally interrupted with a stern, “Principality Aziraphale!”

“Yes?” said Aziraphale, all innocence.

“I have come with a message for the Demon Crowley,” thundered the Metatron. “Will you cease this endless chatter?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Aziraphale, and squeezed Crowley's hand once more. "What's the message?"

The Metatron fixed the pair of them with a glare, and Crowley attempted to slink further down behind Aziraphale's shoulders.

“God feels that your role in ending the Apocalypse, your continued association with the Principality Aziraphale, and your numerous Good Works in the service of humanity have demonstrated your faith in Her,“ said the Metatron. “She, who knows your heart and carries all beings in Her heart, feels you have earned the opportunity to redeem yourself and Rise. Will you repent, and join your angel brethren, as the choirs of cherubim and seraphim sing Her glorious praises on High?”

Crowley went very still. He stopped breathing, not that he needed to breathe in the first place. His knuckles went white around Aziraphale's hand.

Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley, his eyes brimming with tears as a sharp stab of hopeful longing and queasy nerves rose in his stomach. He brought his spare hand across his body to rub his thumb across Crowley's knuckles, pausing when he brushed against the burnished silver angel wings of the wedding ring wrapped around Crowley's fourth finger. This tiny action seemed to spur Crowley back into motion, and he leaned forward, expression intent behind his glasses.

“Huh. Good Works, you said?” he asked.

“Yes. She has observed you across the centuries, as she lives within all times and all places, gracing every moment,” replied the Metatron.

“Which Good Works?” asked Crowley.

“What?”

“Good Works. Which ones?” said Crowley.

“Well," said the Metatron, once again affronted. “A score of blessings and miracles. Cultural patronage. Hamlet, for instance.”

“Pah," retorted Crowley. “Minor miracles, a healing or two. Completing tasks Aziraphale would have done anyway. Just convenience, really. And that outweighs my rebellion? The M25? Delivering the Antichrist? Original sin? Inventing robocalls and Internet Explorer and forms needed in triplicate?”

Aziraphale gasped. “That was _you_?”

“Your lot seemed pretty keen on the whole Apocalypse thing, if I recall,” Crowley continued, ignoring Aziraphale. “Pinch-hitting some miracles doesn't seem to have done the trick before. I've Fallen. Irredeemable. Demon scum. Since the beginning of the world. So what good works can outweigh all that?”

The Metatron paused a moment, tilting his head as if listening, then replied, “The Almighty has been particularly impressed with your work with children.”

“My work with children? Listen, they’re extremely effective agents of chaos, I hardly need to do a thing,” said Crowley. "Almost more effective than demons, really, with all the sleep deprivation and worry they cause their parents."

“You healed a little girl of cancer forty years ago,” said the Metatron, his light turning a softer golden color. “She hadn’t been diagnosed yet, but she was crying all the time, and her mother was exhausted and ran her stroller right into you. You smelled the disease festering on her flesh and healed her with a snap before they even knew she was ill.”

Aziraphale was looking at Crowley with an unbearably soppy expression. He looked like he'd already forgotten the Metatron or any other creature besides Crowley on any plane of existence. Crowley couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. Every molecule in his body wanted to slip into snake form and slither away from this conversation.

“Well,” Crowley said. “I'm sure she turned out to be very evil. I have my reasons.”

“She discovered a new species of fish, and adopted three children with her wife,” said the Metatron. “She lives an ordinary life.”

“Well," said Crowley. “That must have been an accident. Erstwhile demonic miracle.”

“The little boy in Genoa, 1347?”

“Probably spread the plague.”

“Young girl, Guangdong, 1782?”

“Hell-raiser. Couldn’t let her potential go to waste. Became a pirate queen, actually, if I remember correctly.”

“At the beginning, then. The children on the arc.”

“Supposed to die. Thwarting the great plan. Meaningless, in the grand scheme of things.”

“These miracles were neither trivial nor meaningless,” the Metatron said. “God recognizes these miracles as Good Works, far outweighing the petty mischief you pass off as evil to your superiors. She is a merciful God.”

“Merciful?” Crowley hissed. “Merciful? Ssshe's bloody merciful? Why have I had to perform all thessse miraclesss, then?”

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hands tighten around his, but ignored the gentle warning and pushed indignantly to his feet, beginning to yell. “Where wasss Ssshe when thossse children were dying? Where wasss Ssshe when the world was about to end? Where wasss Ssshe with her mercy when… when I Fell?”

“Ah, there it is,” said the Metatron. “The Doubt. The Rage. The reason for your fall in the first place. You must repent of your doubt and your sins. You must trust the wisdom of Her ineffable plan. You must have Faith.”

“And what isss that plan, exactly?” Crowley asked.

The Metatron regarded him with the manner of a teacher bewildered by the sheer stupidity of the answer their student had provided. “It's ineffable.”

“It is a fair question,” Aziraphale said. “Sorry, I know, I know, nothing to do with me, but… why must the ineffable plan be quite so ineffable? And why now?”

The Metatron puffed up his chest (inasmuch as it is possible for the disembodied head of the Voice of God to do so), and said, “The ineffability of the ineffable plan is ineffable!”

“Ah, that explains everything,” said Crowley, his entire body sardonic.

“Do you accept Our Lord's generous offer?” the Metatron said. “Or will you reject clemency and continue in this blasphemy?”

“Oh, er,” Crowley says. “No thanks. I've grown to quite like the blasphemy, you see. Becomes comfortable, after a time. Thanks for the offer, and all that.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “That's settled, then. Are you sure I can't persuade you to try some biscuits? They really are quite lovely.”

The Metatron looked as if he was being forced to hold a nest of angry hornets in his enormous mouth. He ground his jaw, glared murderously, then vanished, the lingering light beams scattering across the room in a flash of brilliant multicolored crosses.

“Oh, thank heaven,” Aziraphale said once the Metatron had gone, sliding further back onto the couch. Crowley slumped back down onto the couch beside him, the fight going out of him instantly. He sprawled gracelessly. “Are you all right, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley couldn't answer. He was making a noise which could have been mistaken for laughter by someone who had never heard real laughter before in their life. Crowley’s laugh was half-choke, half-wheeze, and he seemed incapable of stopping. Aziraphale reached out to brush his hand against his thigh, tentative.

“My dear?” asked Aziraphale. The horrible laughter continued.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Are you quite all right?”

Crowley sat up and flopped forward into Aziraphale’s neck, making an unintelligible noise as his laughter subsided.

“What was that, dear?“

“Sorry, sorry,” Crowley said, lifting his head. “It’s just… can you imagine me back upstairs? Wearing robes and singing divine hymns of praise? Not bloody likely.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Yes, quite. Ridiculous, of course.”

Crowley’s gaze went sharp, and he tore off his sunglasses, revealing slitted pupils narrowed in suspicion. “What?” he demanded.

“Oh, nothing,” said Aziraphale. “But are you sure you wouldn’t rather extract yourself from Hell’s clutches? They do seem rather… hellish.”

“Well,” Crowley said. “Legions of the damned and all that, not exactly pleasant co-workers, but I'd take them over Gabriel any day of the week. Besides, it suits me, rather. I think. The, uh, darkness.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Aziraphale in a rush. “Quite fitting indeed.”

Crowley came to a slow and horrifying realization. “Angel…” he said, “Did you want me to Rise?”

“Ah, well,” said Aziraphale, turning away from Crowley to peer down at the floor as he began fiddling with the snake ring on his fourth finger. “Not as such, dear. Only, well, to be given such an opportunity from the Almighty Herself is not something to pass up lightly, and I thought, perhaps...”

“Oh, you did!” Crowley said, extracting his hand from Aziraphale's grip and putting his sunglasses back on. “You bloody did! You wanted me to join your lot!”

Crowley made to stand up from the couch, only to be stopped by Aziraphale's firm hand clamping onto his wrist. He sank back down to the couch, tension radiating through the unlikely angles of his lanky body.

“Dearest,” said Aziraphale with gentle exasperation, “That's not what I meant.”

“Well, what then? Perfectly alright with me being a demon as long as there isn’t a convenient way out, is that it?”

Aziraphale's thumb resumed gently rubbing Crowley's wrist as he considered his words carefully. “It's not that I wish to change you,” said Aziraphale, after a moment. “Not at all. I have always known who you are, and I love you all the same. I simply thought for a moment about how much easier things would be if we were on the same side.”

Crowley went still. “We are on the same side,” said Crowley quietly.

“Of course. We’re on our side, as you put it,” said Aziraphale. “But I thought, just for a moment, how pleasant it would be to stop worrying about outside intervention. If you became an agent of heaven, nothing could ever separate me from you.”

“Angel, nothing could take me from you,” Crowley said.

“You can't promise that,” Aziraphale said. “You can't. We're living on borrowed time, Crowley, and you and I both know it.”

“We stopped the Apocalypse once, we can do it again.“

“But how long will heaven and hell leave us alone?”

“Those bastards had no idea what hit them,” Crowley said, smug. “They'll leave us alone if they know what's good for them.”

“There's also… oh, never mind,” said Aziraphale.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Aziraphale said. “Another silly notion.”

“What,” Crowley said, flat.

“It's just... I wish you could forgive yourself, as She has forgiven you,” Aziraphale said.

“Forgive myssself?“ Crowley said, a hiss creeping back into his words. “I don't need to forgive myssself. I'm a demon, Aziraphale, and I don't want her- pity or mercy or forgiveness or whatever. If you can't truly accept that-”

“Crowley, of course I accept you-”

“Doesn’t bloody seem like it!“ said Crowley, standing up and extracting his wrist roughly from Aziraphale's gentle grip. “I'll be in the greenhoussse.“ He turned to stomp towards the door, walking with a remarkably angry sashay.

Aziraphale stood up off the couch, reaching for him, but he let Crowley go. He reached out to place his hand on a nearby stack of books, steadying himself as his head bent with sorrow.


	2. Such a long, long way behind us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale talk things out.

Aziraphale and Crowley had plenty of practice in disagreeing with each other; disagreement came with the territory of being hereditary enemies for six thousand years, even as their particular brand of thwarting became increasingly friendly over the centuries. They’d practically invented the art of married bickering, in the familiar manner of those who enjoy a good argument. They’d certainly argued in earnest over the centuries, especially before their Arrangement was sorted out, and this argument came nowhere near the disagreement over holy water or the apocalypse. 

But in the past few years, since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, their arguments had been less serious, mostly involving interior decorating and the role of terror in proper gardening techniques. Aziraphale maintained that plants, like all living beings, require proper nourishment and emotional support in order to grow. Crowley maintained that a little terror shaped strong moral character in plants, although he begrudgingly allowed Aziraphale to whisper little encouragements to his greenhouse. 

After a disagreement like this, Aziraphale determined it would be best to leave Crowley to his own infernal devices for a few hours. He puttered around in the library, organizing the stacks of books that were so recently illuminated by the divine light of the Metatron as he turned over the events of the afternoon in his mind. 

_An offer to Rise, from the Almighty Herself_. Aziraphale had always suspected the spark of goodness in Crowley was unique among the Fallen. For a demon, Crowley had always cared deeply about justice, delighting in large-scale inconveniences rather than individual miseries. He’d suspected Crowley held onto some stubborn Belief in Good, if not Faith in the Almighty, alongside all his anger and doubt. 

Aziraphale's Faith allowed for rule-bending, accepting interpretation and doubt, but his love for the Almighty underpinned his love of everything, even though she’d shown a disappointing lack of initiative in stopping the last Armageddon. His love for Her was as ineffable as his love for Crowley-- it simply was. 

He'd pondered, on occasion, what would have happened if the Apocalypse had, in fact, been carried out as the Great Plan demanded. Would he have fled with Crowley to another solar system? Would he have Fallen to be with Crowley, his Faith finally shaken by the cold indifference to humanity displayed by a supposedly all-loving God? Would he have fought for heaven, loyal till the end?

He could never come to a definitive answer when he pursued this line of questioning. All he really knew was that he'd never made much of a soldier, and he would not have been able to bring himself to harm Crowley no matter the consequences. Besides, humanity was worth saving. On that point, he and Crowley would always agree. 

Aziraphale slid one final book onto a shelf and turned to walk out of the room. He'd left Crowley to terrify his poor plants for long enough, and he refused to let this argument fester. He walked out into the central hallway, floorboards creaking cheerfully under his feet, and headed to the olive green door leading out to Crowley's greenhouse, which took up much of the back garden, but not as much as the size of the interior would suggest. The physics of the greenhouse were as inexplicable as the anatomy of Crowley’s walk. 

When they'd purchased the house, Crowley had expanded and customized an existing greenhouse into a tall wrought-iron structure, supported by delicate vine fretwork and protected by thick panels of glass. The interior steamed, no matter the weather, and Crowley's plants flourished in the sunlight and warmth. He found reminding the plants of how lucky they were worked almost as well as terrifying them into growing in impossibly dim light. The old veteran plants passed down stories of the Dark Days to the seedlings, reminding them of their immense privilege to grow and flourish in warmth and light. The seedlings rather suspected the old plants were having them on, but they listened to the stories of Crowley’s old flat with horrified fascination nonetheless. 

Aziraphale walked the length of the greenhouse, passing giant green leafy columns that scraped the roof of the greenhouse and stands of delicate pink and white orchids, their leaves determinedly stiff and green. He passed a row of Venus flytraps and a collection of pitcher plants hanging from the roof beams. His gaze lingered on curious little spiky plants suspended in glass bulbs which seemed to be growing on nothing but air. He finally reached the end of the improbably long structure, where Crowley was peering carefully at an enormous fern placed on a wooden work table pressed against the wall. He was meticulously inspecting the underside of a large frond, which was shaking in terror. 

“Those nasty little bugs you mentioned?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley jumped a little, nearly ripping the fern frond, then shook his head. “Scale? No, they wouldn't dare. Still, it never hurts to be careful about this sort of thing.”

“Quite,” said Aziraphale, and wavered in awkward hesitation. 

Crowley continued in his detailed inspection of the fern and waited. 

Aziraphale dithered another moment, then planted his feet and shook out his shoulders. “I'm sorry,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley didn't turn around, continuing to lift, inspect, and drop fern fronds with deliberate slowness. 

“I truly don't want you to be anything other than what you are, Crowley,” Aziraphale said to his turned back. “I hoped for security for the two of us, extra protection from heaven and hell. I would never presume to change you, nor would I wish to do so.”

“But you do wish I would stop using miracles for everything,” said Crowley into the fern, which now looked confused as well as terrified. 

“Er,” said Aziraphale. “Well, yes. Sometimes there's pleasure in doing things the human way, my dear.”

“And you do wish I would wear my sunglasses less often around the house,” Crowley said, still obstinately facing the fern. 

“Well, I do love your eyes, but that's not the point, Crowley!” said Aziraphale. “The point is that I'd never presume to change what and who you are, only how you behave. Your essence is demonic, but you're still capable of quite a lot of good.”

“Careful,” said Crowley. 

“I won't say you're nice,” said Aziraphale. “Only because I'm apologizing. But, oh, would you please look at me?”

Crowley turned around and leaned back against the work table. He slowly reached up to pull his sunglasses off. He didn't look spitting furious or ready to slither away, as before. If anything, he looked tired and slightly sad. “I'm not mad at you, angel,” Crowley said. 

“Oh?” said Aziraphale, perking up immensely at the slight encouragement. 

“Er, well, I am. I certainly was,” Crowley continued. “It’s just… I hadn’t really considered it, before. Rising.” 

Aziraphale nodded. “Quite natural.” 

“Didn’t know that was an option,” Crowley said. “God seemed rather definite when She kicked us out. I thought the message was pretty clear. Lake of fire and all that sulphur. Didn’t exactly seem like she wanted us to pop back ‘round for a visit and give things another go in six thousand years,” 

“No, indeed,” said Aziraphale. “Firm messaging has never been an issue with the Almighty.” 

Crowley shook his head. “I can’t Rise, angel,” he said. “Those bastards in heaven tried to kill you.” 

Aziraphale blinked. “Well, hell tried to kill you as well,” he replied. 

Crowley waved a hand, dismissive. “It’s hell,” he said. “All part of the package. You’ve no idea how many Lesser Demons Hastur burns through every month. But heaven tried to kill you even though you hadn’t Fallen. Almost as corrupt as the Catholic Church, that lot.” 

“Still, you could have made your peace with the Almighty,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley shrugged, suddenly looking shifty. “You… you said, uh.”

“What?”

Crowley’s voice became nearly inaudible. “You said you forgive me.” 

“When, dearest?”

“Outside the bookstore. When I asked you to run away with me. You said you forgave me,” Crowley said. 

“Well, yes, of course. I do forgive you,” Aziraphale said, "For whatever you've done that might require forgiveness. Now and forever." 

Crowley nodded, pushing forward off the work table and taking both of Aziraphale’s hands in his own. “Good enough for me. She can keep her redemption.” 

Aziraphale’s entire body seemed to melt, the lingering tension from the Metatron’s visit melting out of his shoulders. “Oh, my dear,” he said, and leaned forward for a lingering kiss. They stood for a long time in the warmth of the greenhouse and each other as the golden beams of late-afternoon sunlight glowed through the glass paneling. 

Unobserved, standing in the shadows of the tree in their back garden, watching the angel and demon in the greenhouse with a sour expression, a shadowy figure lurked with professional dedication, putting the other shadows to shame with his ability in emanating darkness. A maggot fell from Hastur’s hair, writhing on the ground of Aziraphale and Crowley’s lawn. 

Hastur believed himself incapable of harming Aziraphale and Crowley, with their strange and unnatural immunity to Holy Water and Hellfire. But as the Metatron knew Blessing, Hastur knew Tempting, and if there was one thing he liked almost as much as inflicting harm, it was a good old-fashioned temptation. 

He grinned as the pair finally broke apart, contemplating all the pain that tomorrow would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like every writer on this website, I'm a slut for validation. Comments are greatly appreciated.


	3. Who knows when now, who knows where

Hastur thoroughly disliked Crowley’s demonic methods. He preferred good (well, not good, exactly) old-fashioned demonic temptation, customized to the individual. It was the personal touch of customer disservice that you just couldn’t find anymore in these modern upstarts. Still, he compensated for his comparative lack of imagination and subtlety with a direct, blunt-edged determination. Crowley, when on the job, laid traps and worked around problems to ensnare souls in a wide-cast net of simmering frustration. Hastur went for the jugular.

He lurked in the back garden of the cottage, waiting for nightfall. Approaching by night was not, strictly speaking, necessary, but he felt it added to the general ambiance, and he enjoyed a good lurk every now and again. So in the back garden he remained, shielding his general malevolence in order to avoid detection, and watched Aziraphale and Crowley through the windows with a sneer. 

Having lived in their cottage for a few years, Aziraphale and Crowley had fallen into a comfortable domestic routine. As Hastur looked on in disgust, Crowley _misted his houseplants_. Aziraphale _made tea_. Crowley _cooked_ , looking _content_ as he chatted with the angel, wearing a black apron with a picture of an egg adorned with devil horns and captioned “deviled egg” (a housewarming gift from Madame Tracy which Aziraphale found adorable and Crowley pretended to dislike). Hastur shuddered. "First sunglasses, now pun aprons," he muttered to himself. "What next?"

Inside the cottage, Crowley sniffed the air as he sat down at the small round table in the corner of the kitchen. “Sensing anything evil, angel?” he asked. 

Aziraphale looked down at his plate of seafood carbonara, then back up at Crowley. “No more than usual, dear. Do you think it’s the prawns?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “No, not the prawns. Atmospheric evil. Like someone’s… lurking.”

They both looked around in an extremely obvious manner, seeing only their brightly lit kitchen, painted a cheerful yellow at Aziraphale’s insistence and paneled with black walnut cabinets at Crowley’s. Hastur sunk back further into the shadows outside, glaring at the trees until they stretched their branches down to afford him more cover. 

“Huh,” Crowley said. “Maybe it is the prawns.”

Aziraphale and Crowley slipped back into their usual rhythm, Aziraphale chattered about a new book purchase over dinner while Crowley watched him fondly, albeit a little more quietly than usual after the Metatron’s visit earlier that afternoon. For a distracted moment, he tried to imagine Rising back into heaven’s graces, and an old celestial tune crept up from the depths of his memory; he sneezed rather violently after the first few divine notes played in his head. 

After they’d finished eating, Aziraphale insisted on washing the dishes himself, although he did give a stubborn bit of sauce some miraculous encouragement to scrub free. They then retired to the library, where Aziraphale read aloud and Crowley sprawled across the couch, head in Aziraphale’s lap and a glass of wine propped on his stomach. Aziraphale’s posture remained as primly contented as ever, and Crowley lounged with his usual devil-may-care attitude, but when Crowley flicked out his forked tongue, he could taste the traces of divine ozone left by the Metatron’s visit. He hissed, involuntarily. 

“‘ _I was a battle-ground of fear and curiosity. I did not dare to go back towards the pit, but I felt a passionate longing to peer into it_ ,’” Aziraphale read, then closed the book with a sigh. “What, my dear?” he said. “I know science fiction isn’t our usual cup of tea, but you usually find human ideas about this sort of thing amusing, at the very least.” 

“It’ssssss nothing, angel,” Crowley said. He set his wineglass on the floor and wriggled upright, then leaned over to peck a tired kiss onto Aziraphale’s mouth. “I’m going to bed. You coming up?”

Aziraphale shook his head, pressing _The War of the Worlds_ against his chest. “I wouldn’t want to keep you up with the light,” he said. “Sleep well, darling.” 

Crowley nodded to himself, then turned and sauntered out of the room. Aziraphale settled back into the couch, reopening his book and continued to read. ‘ _Did you see a man in the pit?’ I said; but he made no answer to that. We became silent, and stood watching for a time side by side, deriving, I fancy, a certain comfort in one another’s company_. 

The doorbell rang. 

Aziraphale frowned, looking up from his book towards the hallway. He’d assumed, of course, that it was theoretically possible for their doorbell to ring, just as he’d assumed that he would theoretically have customers in his former bookshop, but he was no more prepared to answer the summons of the doorbell than he had been to sell any of his books. They usually had advance warning of any visitors to their cottage, and none of them had any chance to ring the doorbell (as Crowley liked to change into snake form, wait in the front hall, and command the door to swing open when the visitor had nearly reached the door. It never failed to make Newt scream and Anathema roll her eyes). 

The doorbell rang again. 

“Will you get that, angel?” came Crowley’s irritated, sleep-muzzled voice from upstairs. 

“Yes, yes, certainly,” Aziraphale said, putting the book aside on the couch and standing up, smoothing a hand down his waistcoat. The buttons, loosened over the course of the evening, snapped closed. Aziraphale gave his waistcoat one last tug, foregoing the formality of a jacket, then walked out into the hall, went to the door, and opened it. 

Hastur stood on the front stoop, grinning his most disconcerting smile and holding a large shovel that Aziraphale vaguely recognized from their own garden shed. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “So the prawns weren’t evil after all.” 

“No,” Hastur agreed, “Just me.” 

He banged the shovel full-force into Aziraphale’s forehead. The angel’s body slumped forward, and Hastur caught him under the armpits, pulled him out of the house, and snapped them away to a secondary location. 

Upstairs, half-asleep in bed, Crowley sat up at the sound of a dull thud. 

“Angel?” he called hesitantly down the stairs. 

There was no answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I really wasn't planning on this as a chapter, but I was having trouble getting from Point A to Point B without adding this bridge in the middle. Chapter count has been updated accordingly. 
> 
> This chapter contains two things and two things only: domesticity, and ineffable husbands in peak dumbass mode
> 
> I chose The War of the Worlds cuz it was the first literary-ish book I found on a shelf in my house, but I thought the quotes kinda fit? And I may or may not have spent like twenty minutes looking at different aprons with puns on them in the course of writing this chapter. 
> 
> Feedback is love


	4. Where the light of day will find us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I said Hastur was determined and enjoyed an old-fashioned temptation, not that he was any good at his job.

Aziraphale woke up with an ear-splitting, throbbing headache. This struck him as being unusual, although he couldn’t for the life of him figure out _why_ it was so unusual, as the static buzz in his brain rather discouraged any form of critical thinking. 

Slowly, he forced his eyelids open, only to see Hastur’s smug face illuminated by harsh fluorescent lighting in a dark room. 

“Oh, fuck,” Aziraphale muttered, closing his eyes again. Hastur would be the reason for his headache. That, and the shovel. 

“Well, well,” Hastur said. “Swearing already. We’re off to a fine start, aren’t we.” 

Aziraphale pried his eyes open again through sheer force of will. He tried to look around, but the room stubbornly refused to stop spinning. He gained the indistinct impression that the room was very large, very drippy, and smelled like mice droppings and mildew. He looked down at himself, blinking in confusion at his rope-bound hands and the smear of grey ash down the front of his cream-colored waistcoat. 

“What in Heaven,” Aziraphale said, mustering up indignance at the sight of his stained clothing, “do you think you’re _doing_?” 

“Kidnapping you,” Hastur said. “Huh. Didn’t think you’d be this dense.” 

“I gathered _that_ ,” Aziraphale snapped. “But what have you done to my waistcoat? Oh, it’ll need to be laundered, look at the state of it.” 

Hastur looked at the angel in confusion, then patted absently at the breast pocket of his jacket. A small cloud of dust rose into the air and floated around Hastur’s head. Hastur located his crumpled pack of cigarettes, pulled a cigarette out, and lit it with an absent-minded snap of his fingers. As he tucked the pack back into his jacket, the dust lazily settled back onto his shoulders, becoming once again indistinguishable from the rest of the garment. 

“An improvement, if you ask me,” he said, in between drags on the cigarette. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, wincing as his head continued to pound. “Is this quite necessary?” 

“Hmm,” Hastur said. “Yeah, it is.” 

Aziraphale closed his eyes, willing his headache to abate. The throbbing behind his temples miraculously eased, and he sighed in relief. Opening his eyes, he focused on Hastur with renewed intent. “I’ll ask again,” he said. “What _do_ you think you’re doing?” 

“‘M tempting you,” Hastur said. 

“What? Why?”

Hastur leaned forward, the sheen of his pure black eyes glimmering in the sickly dim lighting (which Hastur had arranged for specifically. It reminded him of home).

“Can’t kill you,” Hastur said. “Little birdie upstairs said you’re immune to hellfire. So ‘m tempting you. Crowley’s been doin’ a right miserable job of it.” 

Aziraphale fidgeted against the bindings on his wrists and ankles, which were keeping him tied to a wobbly wooden chair. “I must say, I’m not feeling particularly tempted.” 

“Haven’t started yet,” Hastur said. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Do you mind if we skipped it, then? I’d rather like to get home.” 

“Skipped what?”

“The whole temptation business. I could just miracle myself out of here, you know,” Aziraphale said, primly. 

“And I could hit you with this shovel again,” Hastur said, extinguishing the cigarette in his right hand by grinding it against his left palm, unflinching. “But that seems rather inconvenient, don’t it?” 

Aziraphale glared at him. “I _will_ smite you.” 

“Sure,” Hastur said. “But I’ll be back. Or I’ll summon your loverboy down into hell and feed him to the hounds over, and over, and over. Your choice.” 

“That didn’t end well for you last time, if I recall,” Aziraphale said.

“Oh, sure, can’t kill him either, but I know a thousand ways to flay a demon alive while keepin’ them conscious. It’s an art form, really. I’d love to practice on Crowley,” Hastur said. “But I’ll start with you, if you like.” 

“I’d really rather you didn’t,” said Aziraphale. “Besides, heaven will hardly disapprove of you murdering an angel.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, if I were you,” Hastur said. "Heaven's none too pleased with you either. Just don't know what to do with you." 

They glared at each other. 

“Oh, fine,” said Aziraphale. “Get on with it, then.” 

“What?”

“Go ahead. Tempt me,” Aziraphale said. 

“Right,” Hastur said, standing and squaring his shoulders before squinting at Aziraphale. “Here goes. I think you ought to Fall.” 

Aziraphale stared at him. “What?”

“Falling. Y’know,” Hastur said. “Betraying the almighty, joining the hordes of the damned, all that.” 

“Why on earth would I want to do that?” said Aziraphale. 

Hastur smirked. “The real question is, why haven’t you Fallen already? Consorting with a demon. Disobeying the great plan. All very suspect, if you ask me.” 

Aziraphale straightened. “We’re not _consorting_ ,” he said haughtily. “We’re married. I’ll have you know we’re perfectly respectable.”

“Doubt the Almighty agrees with that,” Hastur said. 

“I’ll have you know She does,” Aziraphale said. “He could have Risen.” 

Hastur paused. “What?”

Aziraphale shrunk back down, remembering various interrogation scenes in novels he’d read over the centuries and realizing that handing away valuable information unprovoked was perhaps not the best course of action.

“Why would you want me to Fall in the first place?” he said, trying to change the subject. 

Hastur shrugged. “Might earn me a commendation, turning an angel,” Hastur said. “‘Sides, if I can’t kill you, at least I can piss Crowley off.” 

“Well, yes, I suppose that makes sense,” Aziraphale said. 

“Hang on,” Hastur said. “You said he coulda Risen. _Could_ have. That bastard’s still as demonic as I am.” 

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” Aziraphale said with distaste. “But yes. He did not choose to accept the Almighty’s offer.” 

“So how'd he survive the holy water? How’d he do it?” Hastur said, frenetic. 

Aziraphale hesitated. 

“Ah,” Hastur said, sensing weakness like a shark smells blood in the water. “So he’s not immune, then.” 

“He is!” Aziraphale squeaked. “You saw him in the bathtub. Splashing around like anything.” 

Hastur stepped forward, leaning forward to peer into Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale shrunk back at the unpleasant smell, much more potent than the low-level odor of decay permeating the room. Hastur smelled like week-old roadkill with a chain-smoking habit (and rather like poo. Warlock had been right on that count). 

“Now how would you know about all that?” Hastur asked. 

Aziraphale nearly gagged at the smell of his breath. “Crowley… must have told me.” 

“Did he now,” Hastur said. “Because I’m starting to have a sneaking suspicion, I am.” 

“Oh?” Aziraphale said, failing to sound nonchalant (then again, with Crowley as an example, he was perhaps destined to fail at feigning nonchalance of any kind). 

“See, you’re an angel,” Hastur began, circling slowly around Aziraphale. 

“I am,” Aziraphale agreed. 

“So you’re immune to holy water. And Crowley’s a demon,” Hastur continued from behind him. 

“He is,” Aziraphale agreed, feeling himself grow faint.

“So he’s immune to hellfire,” Hastur said, coming around to stand in front of Aziraphale once again and smiling with gleeful mania. “Catch my drift?”

“Um,” said Aziraphale, and he began to consider how to miracle himself out of this steadily worsening situation without ending up the recipient of another unwelcome shovel to the face. 

“But that’s impossible,” Hastur said, his smirk fading as he retreated back and plonked down into his purloined decaying office chair. “We’d know the difference between you two. Night and day, really. It’s a wonder you can stand each other.” 

“On the contrary,” Aziraphale said, before very wisely shutting up. Hastur gave him a considering look and leaned forward. 

“I wonder,” he said. “Would you burn? If I torched you with hellfire, right now?” 

Aziraphale flexed his tucked-away wings in an alternate dimension and was preparing to miracle away the ropes around his wrists when Crowley charged through a rusty door in the wall behind Aziraphale’s back, leading with his left shoulder. The hinges creaked and fell to pieces, and the entire door crashed to the floor with a thud. Crowley, moving too fast to stop himself, tripped and fell onto the fallen door, banging his bony knees and knocking his sunglasses off his face and skittering into a dark corner. 

“Ow,” the demon said, picking himself up and brushing off his all-black matching silk pajama set.

“What are you _wearing_?” said Hastur. 

“Didn’t have time to change,” Crowley said. “But I did have time to grab _this_.”

With a dramatic flourish, he pulled his plastic plant mister out of the deep right pocket in his pajamas and pointed it at Hastur. 

Hastur stared at him. “Are you really trying that old trick again?” he said. (Crowley was). 

Crowley brandished the plant mister threateningly. “I’m immune to holy water, remember? Besides, do you think I’d be stupid enough to try and bluff you twice?” (Crowley absolutely was.)

“I won't fall for that this time either, Crowley,” Hastur said. (He was considering it.) 

“Fine, take that risk,” Crowley said, stepping off the rusty door and into the room, walking towards the rickety wooden chair where Aziraphale sat, bound. “Maybe you’ll see Ligur again, wherever you end up.”

Hastur growled, hellfire igniting in his eyes, and stepped forward, but Crowley had reached Aziraphale’s chair. He pressed his left hip into the angel’s shoulder, his hold on the plant mister never wavering. “I’ll ask you again,” Crowley said. “Are you feeling lucky?” 

Hastur wavered for a moment, then leaned down and picked up the garden shovel off the ground, propping it on his shoulder. “You won’t get rid of me that easily. I’ll be back,” he said. “And I’m taking your shovel with me.” 

“Right," Crowley said. "Off with you, then." 

Hastur turned to look at Aziraphale, considering. “Down Below will hear about our little conversation,” he said. With that, he bared his teeth and sank into the ground with a noise like sap popping in burning wood. 

“Oh, thank Someone,” Crowley said, dropping the plant mister and kneeling down in front of Aziraphale to wave a hand over the bindings on his wrists and ankles. “Why didn’t you just miracle yourself out of here, angel?” 

Aziraphale spluttered. “He threatened to feed you to the hellhounds!” 

“Normal Tuesday night in hell, then,” Crowley said. “Can you stand? Skin around your eyes has gone all black. Can angels get black eyes? That doesn’t seem right, somehow.” 

Aziraphale stood up, right hand resting on Crowley’s shoulder for support and reassurance. “I’m fine, dearest.” 

“Good,” Crowley said. “What did he want, then?”

“Tried to tempt me into Falling, funny enough,” Aziraphale said. 

“What? Why?”

“Said you’d hate it.” 

“Well,” Crowley said. “He’s not wrong there.” 

Aziraphale looked up at him, tears glimmering in his eyes for the first time since the whole ordeal began. “You haven’t ever wished that I would Fall, then?”

Crowley looked at him. “You didn’t want me to Rise, did you?” 

Aziraphale shook his head. 

Crowley smiled at him. “I thought about it. Won’t pretend I haven’t,” he said. “But the light suits you, angel. You wouldn’t do well in hell.” 

“Oh?”

“Dreadfully uncomfortable down there,” he said. “No restaurants. Lots of great composers and artists, mind you, but they go a bit wonky once they’re damned. You wouldn’t like it.” 

“Well, no,” Aziraphale said. “But I’d be with you.” 

Crowley reached up his right hand to gently cup Aziraphale’s cheek, exposed eyes impossibly tender. “You’re with me right here, angel,” he said. “And I wouldn’t change you for the world.” 

Aziraphale smiled and closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. After a peaceful moment, he opened his eyes, took Crowley's left hand in his own, and frowned down at his stomach as he ineffectually tried to brush Hastur's debris off his waistcoat with his other hand. 

“Let’s go home,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented and subscribed off that last chapter! I’m having way too much fun with this fic. Your encouragement definitely inspired me to update quickly. 
> 
> Final chapter coming soon, and then maybe a coda? I have some ideas.


	5. I'm long away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who suspected that Aziraphale’s conversation with Hastur would have consequences-- you were riiiight! This isn’t over yet. Also, because I am a liar, I added two more chapters to the total, but one of those will be a coda. Plot things will genuinely wrap up next time, unless the words refuse to cooperate. 
> 
> Also, I’m using they/their-pronouns for Beelzebub and male pronouns for Michael, picturing both characters as presented in the tv show.

Crowley and Aziraphale walked out of the warehouse onto a gravel parking lot, spotted with weeds and scrub brush and surrounded meager trees. Aziraphale blinked owlishly, even in the dim sunlight of dawn. He’d miracled away his headache, but the bridge of his nose was rather beginning to ache, and he could feel the bruising Crowley had mentioned in the delicate skin around his eyes. 

“Where are we?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Not sure, exactly,” Crowley said. “Abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of some city. Hastur’s never been the most original.” 

“How’d you get here, if you don’t know where we are?”

Crowley reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “I dunno,” he said. “I just followed your scent. Never exactly hard for me to figure out where you are.” 

This description of Crowley’s drive to rescue Aziraphale was, technically speaking, accurate, but by the same technicality by which the Iditarod Sled Race can be considered taking your dogs for a long walk, and swimming across the English Channel can be considered getting a bit of exercise-- it evoked the basic mechanics of the action, but only a fraction of the effort and drama involved. 

As soon as Hastur had pulled Aziraphale’s unconscious corporation out their front door, Crowley had raced down the stairs, more slithering than running, and sniffed wildly at the air to catch the lingering hints of evil. He caught Hastur’s scent and went pale. He’d called for Aziraphale with increasing desperation as he frantically ran through the house, looking for a weapon of any kind in stacks of books and Aziraphale’s messy desk and their mostly empty kitchen cabinets. He finally ran into the greenhouse, looked around wildly as his plants began to tremble, grabbed the perfectly ordinary plant mister, and threw himself down the hall, out the door, and into the Bentley with even less convincing use of his legs than usual. 

He navigated towards the warehouse based purely on the strength of his conviction that he would be able to come to Aziraphale’s aid whenever the angel should require assistance. The car hadn’t argued, although Crowley’s driving was even more erratic than usual, nearly running over twelve pedestrians and almost colliding with at least twenty-seven other vehicles, and the Bentley had technically reached terminal velocity twenty miles-per-hour faster than its normal maximum, even according to Crowley’s unreasonable expectations of the speed a car from the 1930s should be able to reach. 

The only police officer who'd tried to stop the relentlessly speeding Bentley suddenly found herself sitting not in her patrol car, but in the dining room of the London Ritz (Crowley had rather meant to choose a much less elegant destination for her, but focused as he was on Aziraphale, no other location would come to mind). 

Crowley had been trembling by the time he’d reached the warehouse, with nerves and adrenaline and the half-remembered terror of a burning bookshop. The relief of having found him alive and mostly unharmed was now doing inconvenient things to Crowley’s heart and limbs. He wanted to wrap himself around the angel, body and soul and wings, curl up on their couch at home, and remain there for the rest of eternity. 

Aziraphale, swaying slightly by Crowley’s side, hummed at the sight of the mostly empty parking lot, then spotted the Bentley. As they walked towards it, Aziraphale could see deep skid marks left in the gravel behind the car, where Crowley had screeched to a halt. The normally spotless car was covered in a thin layer of dust and the windshield was splattered with bugs. 

“In a hurry, were you?” he said. 

Crowley didn’t smile at the joke. “I woke up and you were gone, angel,” he said quietly. “I could tell you were still on earth, but… I _told_ you I sensed something evil during dinner. What if he’d discorporated you? What if I’d been too late?” 

“No use worrying about that now,” Aziraphale said. “Let’s go home. Do you know, I might actually take a nap.” 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Crowley asked, taking a look at his injuries in the daylight, wincing in sympathy at the black eyes and the red mark in the middle of his forehead where the top edge of the shovel had made contact. “Ooh, that’s gotta hurt. Do you want to take care of it, or should I?” 

Aziraphale waved a tired hand over his face, and the injuries disappeared, leaving only a dull tingling sensation. He didn’t sleep often, but kidnapping, strong emotion, and a shovel to the face can tire any being out, celestial or otherwise. 

Once they reached the Bentley, Crowley snapped his fingers, and the car cleaned itself. For good measure, he glared down at the dusty parking lot to discourage any dirt particles against any silly ideas like getting his car dirty again. He opened the passenger door, gently ushering Aziraphale inside the vehicle, before hurrying over to the driver’s side. 

They both remained quiet as Crowley began to drive away, exhausted in their own ways. Aziraphale settled into the familiar passenger’s seat. After about ten minutes, Crowley flicked on the Blaupunkt radio, and the familiar strumming guitars of Queen filled the car. 

_You might believe in Heaven,_

_I would not care to say._

_For every star in heaven,_

_There’s a sad soul here today._

“Oh, come on,” Crowley said. “That’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Well, you picked the music, my dear,” Aziraphale answered. 

“Not my fault,” Crowley said. “This isn’t even on _Best of Queen_. She’s just being cheeky, now.” 

“Who?”

“The car! Who else?” 

Brian May continued singing. 

_Lonely as a whisper on a star chase_

_Does anyone care anyway_

_For all the prayers in heaven_

_So much of life’s this way_

“You know, it’s not entirely awful,” Aziraphale said. “A bit softer than your usual thing. And who’s that singing?”

“The guitarist,” said Crowley. “He’s also an astrophysicist. It’s all a bit complicated. Anyway,” he said, looking down at the car dashboard, “Knock it off.” 

The volume turned up slightly. 

_I’m leaving here, I’m long away_

_For all the stars in heaven,_

_I would not live, I could not live this way_

“Right, that’s it,” Crowley said, reaching down and switching off the music. He continued the drive in silence, navigating mostly on the assumption that the car remembered the mad dash to the warehouse and without any actual knowledge of which direction he was going. 

As Crowley drove, although he had no way of knowing it, things were afoot Down Below (although he might have assumed, as things in hell rather tended to be afoot, or aclaw, or awing, and no one was ever up to any good). Hastur walked through the crowded hallways, jostling his way through the plodding drudgery of the lines of damned souls with careless contempt. He took a deep breath, savoring the scents of burnt rubber and damp mildew that always lingered in these hallways, then turned to knock on Beelzebub’s office door. 

After a moment, Beelzebub yanked open the small eye-level window in the door with an awful screeching noise. “What,” they demanded, already sounding irritated. 

“Let me in,” Hastur said. “Got something for you.” 

“What?” Beelzebub asked. 

Hastur looked around, surreptitiously. The damned continued to shuffle along in an endless line behind his back, although there were a few lesser demons in the dark corner of the hallway eyeing him suspiciously. One of the demons picked at her pointed teeth with the edge of a long, blood-stained dagger, then reached up to pick at the teeth of the ratty ferret perched on her head with the same knife. 

“It’s about you-know-who,” Hastur said. 

“Who?” 

“The traitor and his angel boyfriend,” Hastur said. “I think I’ve got something.” 

Beelzebub squinted at him, then nodded and opened the door. “Thizzz had better be good,” they said. 

Hastur walked into the room and shut the door behind himself. The space was dominated by a large desk, topped by a jagged slab of obsidian and propped up on bundles of thigh bones. Filing cabinets stuffed with papers lined the walls on either side of the desk, and a fire burned malevolently in a pit in the middle of the floor. Beelzebub walked past the fire, around the desk, and sat down in their throne-like chair, propping their feet up. The usual cloud of flies buzzed lazily around their head.

“Well?” Beelzebub said. “What have you got?” 

“I think they tricked us,” Hastur said. 

“Of courzzze they tricked us,” Beelzebub said. “Crowley’s a demon, that’s what we do. But unless you can tell me precisely _how_ they tricked us, there’s not a whole lot we can do to a demon immune to the effects of holy water.” 

“What if he’s not immune?” Hastur said. 

Beelzebub snorted. “Tell that to the legionzzz of demons who watched him climb into that bathtub like it was nothing. Dreadful inconvenient, that. Got a lot of people thinking we’d gone soft.” 

“Can I torch the angel, at least?” Hastur said. “Just to give it a go?”

“Upstairs tried that already,” Beelzebub said. “You really want to get dizzzcorporated over that little upstart principality? He’ll smite you if you’re wrong.” 

Hastur growled. 

“Any other bright ideas?” Beelzebub asked. 

“No,” Hastur said. 

“Good. Wouldn’t be right, demons having anything bright. Now get the heaven out of my offizzze,” they said. 

Hastur walked out into the hallway, shoulders slumped, increasingly convoluted plots for revenge already spinning away in his mind. 

Beelzebub picked up the paperweight on their desk, which happened to be a very large and heavy knife. They twirled it in their right hand, one finger resting on the sharp tip, then put the knife down and reached for their desk phone (a landline. Of all the awful things in hell, the cell phone reception was particularly terrible). 

“Yes?” Michael answered. “It’s not a very convenient time.” 

“Quick and dirty, then. Did you check the Earth surveillance records on the days before we tried executing your traitor angel and our traitor demon?” 

“Why would we do that?” Michael asked. 

“Don’t know,” Beelzebub said. “Juzzzt a hunch.” 

“I’ll need a bit more than that,” Michael said. “You could be manipulating me.” 

Beelzebub snorted. “Fine. Then, as your wily adversary, I’m ringing to tell you not to check the Earth surveillance records on those days. Official temptation notice: do not look at the surveillance, and don’t even think about telling me what you find.” 

Michael sighed. “Very well, then,” he said, and hung up. 

Beelzebub waited impatiently, twirling the knife. The flies buzzed and circled idly. They began contemplating new ways of torturing the author of _Lord of the Flies_ , for the crime of subjecting them to so many bad puns over the past fifty years. 

Just as Beelzebub’s thoughts turned particularly vicious, the phone rang. 

“Yezzz?” Beelzebub answered. 

“You’re not going to believe this,” said Michael’s breathless voice. “They switched places.” 

“What?”

“They switched corporations. Impersonated one another,” Michael said. “That was Aziraphale you doused in holy water.” 

Beelzebub sat up straight, truly astonished for only the second time since the Fall (the first being the apocalypse cancellation. Aziraphale and Crowley were not good for their blood pressure). “And we didn’t notizzze???” they demanded. 

“Apparently not,” Michael said. “They sent a _demon_ up to heaven. And that’s not all.”

“What elzzze?” 

“The surveillance footage captured… well. Other activities.” 

“Activitiezzz?”

“It seems they are, to put it delicately, lovers.” 

“Loverzzz?”

“Yes,” Michael said. “In the Biblical sense. It’s all a bit difficult to process, and rather uncomfortable to watch. After they switched back, they went on a _date_. And then there was... kissing.” 

“Eugh,” Beelzebub said.

“Quite. Gabriel nearly lost his head, and I’ve rarely seen Uriel so furious. Sandalphon was… well. Sandalphon. We stopped surveilling at that point, but based on more recent footage, it seems that their association has continued. They are, in fact, _living together_.” 

“Living in sin, eh?” Beelzebub asked. “Cuz that’s all right on our end.” 

“No,” Michael said. “They’re… well, they seem to be wearing _wedding rings_. As if the Almighty would sanction such a union. Anyway, I thought you might like to know we’re rallying some troops, preparing to march in about an hour. Thanks for the tip-off, by the way.” 

“Where?

“Earth. A cottage in the South Downs. I'll pass on the coordinates,” Michael said. “I suppose it wouldn’t be the worst thing if your side turned up. We’ll take the demon if you take the angel.” 

Beelzebub grinned. “Wouldn’t mizzz it for the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dun dunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
> 
> Since we know heaven is taking surveillance footage, based on the photos they have of Crowley and Aziraphale over the centuries, it seems like it would be absurdly easy for them to figure out what really happened?? Way to go, switching bodies on a park bench in broad daylight. So stealthy, guys. Well done. 
> 
> I should note that Heaven and Hell both strongly object to an angel and a demon being in a loving relationship, not two beings presenting as male in their current bodies being together. Human notions of gender don’t mean a whole lot to either side, especially with regards to other ethereal and infernal beings.


	6. Waiting for that day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven and Hell descend on the cottage (or ascend, as it were); God makes an executive decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! This is the last real chapter of plot, although I do have a small final chapter planned. 
> 
> This is the longest creative thing I’ve written in a while, and contains many more terrible jokes than I originally anticipated, but I’ve had a lot of fun writing it. Thanks for reading!

Crowley turned into the driveway of their cottage, driving much more sedately than he had been the previous night. He’d taken a spare pair of sunglasses out of the glove compartment to hide his eyes as dawn melted into midmorning while he drove. Aziraphale had drifted off to sleep, lulled by the motion of the car, but he woke up as the Bentley rolled to a stop. Crowley put the car in park, then slumped back in his seat. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, wiggling to stretch out his shoulders. “That was nice. I might have to try sleeping more often.” 

“Does become rather inconvenient if you make a habit of it,” Crowley answered. 

“Yes, but more than once a millennium couldn’t hurt, dear,” Aziraphale said. “You do always make it look so peaceful.” 

Crowley looked over at him. “Have you been watching me sleep, angel?”

Aziraphale blushed. “On occasion. I hope you don’t mind. It’s, well. As I said. Peaceful.” 

Crowley made no answer, but smiled to himself as they got out of the car and walked through the front door, left ajar by Crowley in his crazed desperation. Aziraphale headed down the central hallway and into the kitchen to begin making himself a cup of tea as an antidote to a stressful morning. Crowley followed him, not wanting to let the angel leave his sight. He leaned against the counter and folded his arms as Aziraphale started the kettle and rummaged through their collection of tea in the cabinet. 

“So,” Crowley said. “They know where we are.” 

“Yes, it appears so,” Aziraphale said. “Do you think they’ll leave us alone?” 

Crowley shook his head. “Don’t think so. Hastur’s not one to give up.” 

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “So where does that leave us?”

“Well,” Crowley said. “We could move, I suppose.” 

Aziraphale sighed. “They’ll find us again, Crowley. We can’t run forever.” 

“Why not?”

“It’s very likely you personally offended the Almighty by refusing Her offer,” said Aziraphale. “And as you say, Hastur won’t give up. We need a plan.” 

“She’d have seen it coming, if She’s so all-knowing,” Crowley grumbled. 

Aziraphale gave him a look. “That’s a theological question only She is prepared to answer,” he said.

The water in the electric kettle boiled and the machine switched off. Aziraphale poured the water over the teabag in his favorite mug, the white one with the angel wings. The conversation tipped into a lull, both angel and demon relaxed and comfortable in their kitchen but somehow feeling themselves to be very far away from the earthly comforts of home. 

“I’ll be in the greenhouse,” Crowley said. “Plants will get complacent.” 

Aziraphale shook himself out of his reverie, and sighed. He turned to look at Crowley. “I do love you, you know,” he said. "Thank you for coming to rescue me." 

Crowley smiled and reached out to brush his fingers against Aziraphale's shoulder. "Anytime, angel," he said, and slipped out of the room to reinstill fear in his plants. 

He had just begun telling off a towering green plant from his old flat for allowing one of its lower leaves to turn yellow when the light in the room turned strange, illuminating Crowley and his plants in an ominous orange glow. He looked up. 

“Angel!” Crowley called. 

“What, dearest?" Aziraphale asked, walking distractedly into the greenhouse as he stirred honey into his nice soothing cup of tea. “Plants misbehaving again?”

“Uh. I think they figured it out.”

Aziraphale stopped stirring and looked up, his face illuminated by the odd light of the low-hanging clouds. Their back garden was on fire as demon after demon pushed up through the soil, igniting the grass around them. Above them, angels circled like a flock of enormous birds, their white wings flashing as they swirled around each other in a dizzying tower of light which reached up into the sky far beyond the clouds, piercing the dimensional veil into heaven itself. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. “That might be my fault.” 

“What?” Crowley said, whipping around. 

“I may have, ah. Let something slip to Hastur,” Aziraphale said. "I'm afraid he guessed about our little switcheroo." 

The angels began descending, their wings tilting into a dive as their white robes billowed in the wind. A shrill celestial tone began to vibrate through the whole house, and hairline fractures appeared in the panes of glass in the roof of the greenhouse. Crowley winced against the noise, watching as the faces of the angels seemed to shift and change, thunderous and inhuman, with more eyes and faces and wings than the human eye could process or comprehend. The demons hissed and began advancing, their more animalistic features flickering in and out of existence on the mortal plane. The grass continued to burn as they walked towards the house, green shoots wilting and blackening under the feet of the denizens of hell. 

Crowley reached his arms up towards the menacing sky as panels began to shatter and fall from the greenhouse roof. The entire building shook as the opposing energies of heaven and hell crashed and collided and broke against the house in waves. 

Time stopped. 

Aziraphale breathed out as he once again found himself in the eternal white nothingness of the in-between place. A snatch of poetry crossed his mind: _boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away_. He cracked his neck, put down his mug of tea on the ground, and straightened up to look at Crowley, who was striding over towards him. Crowley reached out and gripped his shoulders, pressing their foreheads together. 

“That won’t hold them very long,” Crowley said, voice tight. “But everything will be fine. Nothing’s going to happen. I won’t let them touch you.” 

“Crowley…”

“No!” he said. “I spent six thousand bloody years waiting for you, I’m not going to let those bastards take you away from me now. Whatever it takes.” 

Aziraphale smiled, eyes impossibly sad. “Against the combined forces of heaven and hell? It looked as though they rather wanted to prove a point with that display.” 

“Whatever it takes,” Crowley repeated. “Fuck it. I’ll do it. I’ll Rise.” 

Crowley stepped back from Aziraphale, looking up at the pure white light of the false sky in this nowhere land and throwing his arms out in a beseeching gesture. “Do you hear that? God, Jesus, Holy Spirit? Metatron? Anybody?” Crowley yelled. “I’ll bloody Rise, if that’s what it takes. Come on! Halo me up! I’m repenting here!” 

“My dear, I think it’s a bit late for that now.” 

“What then?” Crowley said, turning back towards Aziraphale. “Come on, angel, there’s got to be something.” 

Aziraphale straightened his bow tie. His wings flexed behind him. “Well,” he said. “I suppose the only thing left to do is pray.” 

“I _was_ praying!” 

“Not very politely,” Aziraphale chastised. “Now, restart time, please.” 

He closed his eyes and began to draw on the well of light that resided within him, at the core of his true essence, not his human-shaped body but the whirring eldritch confusion of his true form. He drew on the rich warmth of his love for humanity, with all their clever little inventions and delicious wines. He drew on his love of Crowley, pulling deeper and deeper from the well, and thought of the simple pleasure of long nights in the company of someone who knows every inch of your body and soul, the terrifying joy of being seen and loved for all that you are. 

He began to push that light outwards, begging the Almighty to see him, see his love, and save it. If the planet burned, if heaven and hell definitively destroyed each other in their endless conflict, then Aziraphale wanted nothing more than for himself and Crowley to be the last beings left alive in the universe. Perhaps the selfishness of his love made him a bad angel, but he let the feelings pour out of his soul, unpolished and raw. He prayed for absolution, for safety, for a chance. He prayed for a rainy Tuesday afternoon, just the two of them bickering about nothing and relaxed. Home. 

“Wait,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale opened his left eye, just a sliver. He could feel himself glowing, emitting every ounce of radiant goodness and divine love within his soul. Crowley was staring at him with a strange expression on his face. He slowly reached up and pulled off his sunglasses, his vulnerable eyes squinting against Aziraphale’s divine light. 

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale said. 

“I-uh. Don’t say it enough,” Crowley said. “But- you know. I love you. You know that I love you.”

Aziraphale smiled, and said, “My dear, I never had any doubt of that.” 

Crowley took a breath, put his sunglasses back on, and snapped his fingers as he released his hold on time. He reached out to grab Aziraphale’s hand. They looked up together, out of the ceiling panels of the greenhouse, as the heavenly hordes continued to descend. The greenhouse was shaking to pieces, the noise nearly loud enough to drive both of them to their knees, but they stubbornly remained standing, supporting one another. 

Just as the edge of the burning grass surrounding the demons touched the foundation of the house, a wind blew over the front of the cottage, whistling through the shattered window panes. It continued over and through the house, rustling the pages of each book, rattling the cabinets, and shaking the trees that bordered their back garden. Crowley and Aziraphale startled as the wind whipped through their hair and their jackets began to flap in the impossible breeze. The wind blew harder and harder, the steady gust becoming deafening, and the demons in the back garden hissed and covered their eyes as they were pushed back, nearly leaning at forty-five-degree angles against the force of the wind. The angels descending from above scattered like a flock of birds battered by a hurricane. 

“Are you doing this?” Crowley shouted over the wind. 

“I certainly don’t think so!” Aziraphale shouted, clutching harder at Crowley’s hand. 

Two miles away, eighty-year-old Elaine Cooper paused in walking her miniature Yorkshire Terrier down a country lane, squinting over at the house of those two strange young men who’d moved in a few years ago. A great wind seemed to be blowing through the trees, but only surrounding their home, and the weather, quite pleasantly sunny where she was standing, appeared to be turbulently cloudy over in their direction. 

As she watched, great white brick walls materialized out of thin air, obscuring the home from view entirely. Her dog, Princess, began yapping wildly, pulling at the end of her pink leash. 

“Young people these days,” Elaine muttered, reaching down to pick Princess up, and began industriously strolling in the other direction. 

Inside the newly manifested walls, the wind stopped blowing with one final gust that pushed the demons back into the earth and cleared the funnel cloud of angels from the sky. 

Crowley and Aziraphale, still standing in their greenhouse, looked at each other, then looked outside. 

“Er,” Crowley said. “Are you seeing this?”

“I suppose I am,” said Aziraphale, faintly. 

Where before there had been deciduous trees bordering a small back lawn, there were now immense vine-draped trees laden with tropical flowers. Butterflies flitted between the enormous blooms as new shoots of plants pushed up through the earth and flourished in front of their eyes. Monkeys chattered in the trees. Tropical birds of every color and species called raucously, flying from branch to branch. It was Edenic. It was, in fact, Eden. 

Aziraphale and Crowley walked to the back of the greenhouse, still hand-in-hand, and stepped out into the yard through the empty space left by a shattered window panel. The shards of broken glass had vanished. They looked around, transfixed, at the white walls and verdant trees familiar from six-thousand years ago, from the beginning of the world. 

Crowley glanced down at his own body, noticing with annoyance that his jeans and jacket had been replaced by a familiar dark robe. His sunglasses had vanished. Aziraphale was clad in a corresponding white robe. Both of them had their wings out, without having intentionally manifested them. 

“Oi,” Crowley said. “What in Heaven is this?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Aziraphale said. 

“It can’t be Eden,” Crowley said. “Eden was in Mesopotamia, until it wasn’t, anymore. What did your lot do with it, anyway?” 

“Put into storage, I think,” said Aziraphale. 

“Huh,” Crowley said. He turned back around. There was their cozy cottage, familiar stone walls and brick chimney. Beyond, in the distance over the roof, he could see the immense white walls of the Garden, circling all the way around. They still gleamed like new (the garden, after all, had gotten limited use). 

“Did… did we have a tree there before?” Aziraphale asked, nodding his head towards a large, leafy tree in the middle of what used to be their backyard, and Crowley turned back around. 

“Er,” Crowley said. “No. Don’t think so.” 

“Is that… an apple tree?” 

“Looks like.” 

“That’s not… _the_ tree, is it?“ Aziraphale asked. 

“It's certainly _a_ tree,“ Crowley said. “Very tree-like, that.”

“Hmm, yes,” Aziraphale said. 

They stood a moment in silent contemplation. Iridescent insects buzzed around them, never close enough to be an annoyance.

“Do you think… we should eat from it?” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley sucked in a breath. “Ooh, I dunno,” he said. “Rather a lot of trouble last time someone ate from that tree.” 

“But why else would it be here? Why else would _we_ be here?” Aziraphale asked. “This all must be the work of the Almighty.” 

“Eh, if you say so,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale turned to look at him, voice growing excited. “It’s all part of the ineffable plan, Crowley. What if She _intended_ humanity to eat the apple? It’s got to be some sort of sign.” 

“A sign of what?” Crowley said. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, excitement deflating. “Divine favor?”

Crowley wiggled his scaly toes into the soft moss which carpeted the garden and hummed as an indecisive answer. 

“Well, go on then,” Aziraphale said. 

“What?”

“Tempt me into it.” 

“Tempt you?” Crowley said. “Is this… Angel, are you _roleplaying_?” 

Aziraphale blushed, but then he _smirked_. “And if I was, O Serpent of Eden?” 

“Uh,” Crowley said. “Are you sure?” 

“Not entirely,” Aziraphale said. “But it has to mean something, and as the alternative seems to be facing our superiors…”

“Right,” Crowley said. “How about it, angel? Fancy knowing the difference between good and evil?” 

“I have always wondered about that,” Aziraphale said. “If I am a being of pure love, intended only to do good, doesn’t that mean that I necessarily must know the difference between good and evil already? But I have never partaken of the fruit. Do I therefore not have free will, or is the free will of humanity, in fact, an illusion? Does the apple have anything to do with free will at all, or did they always have it? The whole business becomes quite confusing if you ever properly try to wrap your head around it." 

Crowley walked over to the tree, pulling a large red apple off one of the low-hanging branches. “Stop philosophizing and eat the blessed thing, angel,” he said. 

Aziraphale reached out a shaking hand to take the fruit. Keeping his eyes locked on Crowley’s, he took a large bite. 

“Hmm,” he said. 

“Well?” Crowley said. “Burdened with glorious knowledge? Feeling the urge to cover yourself with fig leaves?”

“It’s quite juicy,” Aziraphale said. “But no. Besides, I’m not naked. Come on, take a bite.” 

Crowley reached out and took the apple from Aziraphale’s hand, sinking his sharply pointed teeth into the fruit. As he took a bite, Eden vanished around them. The tree, the fauna, and the flora disappeared into thin air with a gentle gust of wind, leaving behind only the red apple clutched in Crowley’s hand. Their modern clothes had returned, Crowley’s sunglasses neatly tucked into his pocket. They were standing in the middle of their ordinary backyard, side by side. The cottage still stood behind them, glass panes miraculously restored to the windows. 

"Feel any different?" Aziraphale asked. 

"Hard to tell," Crowley said. "I am actually quite hungry, now that we're on the topic of food." 

A shocked gasp came from the side of the garden, and Crowley and Aziraphale looked up sharply in opposite directions. Over Crowley's shoulder, Aziraphale saw Hastur, Beelzebub, and Belial standing on the left side of the yard, gaping. Over Aziraphale's shoulder, Crowley saw Michael, Uriel, and Gabriel standing on the right side of the yard. Gabriel was making a pained, high-pitched sound, rather like a deflating balloon.

Crowley and Aziraphale froze. 

“What,” Gabriel said, recovering his (limited) wits. “The actual fuck. What just happened?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My summary in my notes for the next chapter is "Heaven and Hell go 'what the fuck'", so if that was your reaction to this chapter, you're in good company. 
> 
> Line of poetry is from Percy Shelley's Ozymandias, for no particular reason. 
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated!!


	7. A million lights above you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven and Hell go "what the fuck"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaand that's it! Thanks for sticking with me through this weird little story.

From the left side of the yard, the demonic delegation advanced. From the right, the angels strode forward. Aziraphale and Crowley grabbed for each other’s hands and backed up as both sides advanced, ending up pressed against the newly restored glass paneling of the greenhouse. The three infernal and three ethereal beings formed a semi-circle around the pair, blocking them in. 

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” Uriel said. 

Aziraphale squeaked. “We’re not playing at anything.” 

“Was that… did you… was that _the actual Garden of Eden_?” Gabriel said. 

“Can’t have been. Trickzzz and illuzionzzz,” Beelzebub said. “Alwayzzz the same.” 

“No, it was real, it was definitely real,” Crowley said, thrusting forward the apple still clutched in the hand currently not occupied with desperately holding on to Aziraphale. “Look! Brought back a souvenir! 

The six of them paused, staring at Crowley. 

"My God," Michael said. "The demon ate from the tree."

"You... ate from the tree." Gabriel said. "You _ate from the tree_?"

"Both of us did, actually," Aziraphale said, gripping harder at Crowley's hand. 

"What the angel would you do that for?" Beelzebub said. 

“They're bluffing,” Hastur said. "Have to be." 

He pulled a large black rubber glove and slightly crumpled disposable plastic water bottle out of his coat pocket. He slid the glove onto his left hand, then very carefully grasped the full water bottle and held it out towards Michael. “Bless this, wouldja?” he said. 

Michael still looked rather shellshocked, but dutifully mumbled a blessing. 

Before either Aziraphale or Crowley could react, Hastur stepped forward and thrust the open water bottle in Crowley’s direction. 

“No...” Aziraphale whispered as the water flew through the air, horrorstruck, but it was too late. 

Crowley gasped and shrieked as the water sloshed down his front. He looked down to see… dripping wet clothes. 

The whole motley group stared at the thoroughly unmelted demon. 

“Huh,” Crowley said. “That’s new.” 

Hastur turned to Michael. 

“Didja bless it properly?” he said. 

Michael nodded, eyes wide. 

Hastur growled, gaze flicking to Aziraphale. He pulled a second water bottle out of his jacket, and once again thrust it in Michael’s direction. 

“It’s another bleeding bodyswap trick,” Hastur said. “Bless it.” 

“I really don’t think that’s necessary-” Aziraphale said. 

“Bless. It.” Hastur said. Michael mumbled another halfhearted blessing. Hastur stepped forward once again to slosh the holy water into Aziraphale’s face. He spluttered and closed his eyes. 

Hastur waited a moment, but when it became clear that Aziraphale was very much not about to melt into a puddle of demonic goo, he visibly gulped and took a step back. Aziraphale shook water droplets out of his hair. Beelzebub, Hastur, and Belial jumped back with a shriek. Gabriel wrinkled his nose in distaste as water droplets splattered the lower edge of his coat. 

“If you’re quite finished,” Aziraphale said, looking around the flabbergasted group of archangels and demonic princes. “I rather think you all should leave.” 

The angels, nodding, stumbled backwards and launched into the sky. With one last malevolent glare, the demons sunk back into the ground. 

Crowley leaned down, putting his hands on his knees and taking a few rapid breaths. “Holy mother of Satan,” he said. “I thought- phew. Angel. I thought we were goners. What just happened??” 

Aziraphale laughed in sheer relief. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suspect it might be ineffable.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes, then began laughing as well, still bent over his knees with the apple clutched in his left hand. Aziraphale stepped forward to rub his back, and he leaned into the touch. After another moment, he straightened up. 

“Well then," he said. "Care for a spot of lunch? I’m famished.” 

“You could tempt me into it.”

Together, they turned and walked back into the house. 

Lunch, after a day like they’d been having, turned out to be a bottle of wine split between the two of them on their favorite couch in the library. The apple of Eden, with two large bites taken out of it, was left sitting on their kitchen counter, looking suspiciously crisp and delicious even after exposure to the air. Aziraphale suspected it would remain red and rosy, no matter how long it sat there. 

Crowley curled up on his half of the couch, his toes brushing against Aziraphale’s left thigh. After an hour of mostly quiet drinking, both of them turning over the events of the morning in their mind, Crowley pulled his sunglasses off and rubbed at his eyes in exhaustion. Aziraphale peered at him, expression curious. 

“What?” Crowley said. 

“Oh, nothing,” Aziraphale said. “I’d wondered, with the whole apple business, if something might have changed.” 

Crowley froze. “My eyes still the same?” he asked. 

“Looks like it,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley, experimentally, changed into a snake, curled his way around Aziraphale’s leg and torso, and then re-assumed his humanoid form, now sprawled across Aziraphale’s lap. 

“That’s still the same,” Crowley said. “Noticing any differences on your end?” 

“Hmm,” Aziraphale said, reaching up to sling an arm around Crowley's shoulders. He ruffled his wings in their tucked-away dimension, reaching out with his angelic senses to feel the love permeating their home and radiating off of Crowley, familiar and comforting. 

“I still feel rather angelic,” Aziraphale said. “Although… huh.” 

He stood up, gently pushing Crowley off him onto the couch, and released his wings. Crowley gasped, gaping at him. Where before there had been pure white feathers, Aziraphale now had buttery golden feathers which shone with a warm, gentle light. 

“What?” Aziraphale said, turning from side to side trying to view his wings like a cat startled by their own tail. He stretched his wings out, curling them around his own body. “Oh!” 

Crowley stood up and manifested his own wings. The deep black of his wings had softened into a warm copper color. 

“What the hell… heaven… _whatever_ does She think She’s playing at?” Crowley said. 

“You don’t like them?” Aziraphale asked with a pout, fluttering his golden wings. 

“Oh, well,” Crowley said. “I wouldn’t say that. But what does that _mean_? She couldn’t have written a note? Sent a prophet?” 

Aziraphale flexed his wings contemplatively, stretching out his primary feathers to admire the way they caught the light coming through the bay window. 

“I think it means we’re free,” Aziraphale said. “I can't imagine Heaven or Hell will be particularly inclined to bother us now. We're on our own side, officially, with approval from Upstairs." 

“Like we weren’t before?” Crowley said, defensive. "We chose this, angel. Nothing to do with the Almighty. I chose you." 

“We chose each other, dearest,” Aziraphale said, placating. “But I think the Almighty just told Heaven and Hell to, well. Shove off. Gave a sign. Made her opinion clear.” 

“What, like a great divine middle finger?” Crowley said. “She’s never exactly been subtle, I suppose. With the flood and the pillar of salt and the whole resurrection thing. But divine wind? Eden? All seems a bit… Old Testament, if you ask me.” 

Aziraphale hummed. “So was Armageddon,” he said. 

“Eh,” Crowley said. “Point taken.” 

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, admiring his new wings with a small smile on his face. Crowley, even after six-thousand years, blushed. 

“So I’m still a demon. Sort of,” Crowley said, gathering himself. “And you’re still an angel. Mostly.” 

“Apparently so,” Aziraphale said. 

“So where does that leave us?” 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, flicking his wings back behind him and stepping towards Crowley. “Right here, I suppose.” 

As Aziraphale stepped forward into a soft, lingering kiss, and Crowley’s hands reached up to cup his face, both of them silently agreed that _right here_ was, indeed, an excellent place to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fanart inspired the wing color change at the end, all credit to dotstronaut for the idea: https://dotstronaut.tumblr.com/post/186344479313/were-on-our-own-side-i-have-a-little-headcanon
> 
> Thanks for all your comments and kudos :) I hope everything now makes sense? 
> 
> I sort of wanted to write about Gabriel up in heaven, yelling at the divine equipment manager for letting someone swipe the Garden of Eden out of storage, but that's very much not essential to the plot, so I'm marking this complete and leaving it here for now.
> 
> If you want to say hi, I'm on tumblr and occasionally making mediocre gifsets of Michael Sheen's face @thebeatlesaremyboyband


End file.
